Finita la Comedia

The late afternoon sun, a molten gold orb sinking towards the horizon, cast long, dancing shadows across our camp. I leaned against a moss-covered boulder, its surface cool and damp beneath my touch, a faint smile playing on my lips. The impromptu magic lesson had concluded, and the others were milling about, slowly returning to themselves. The air was thick with the heady scent of wildflowers and damp earth, a symphony of natural perfumes that only the Feywild could offer.


It was moments like these, surrounded by the raw, untamed beauty of this realm, that I felt most at peace.


One could even say that I was… happy.


To witness the spark of understanding ignite in my new friends' eyes, to touch their very minds, to guide them towards enhancing and realizing their potential… it gave me a deep sense of fulfillment unlike anything else I've done so far.


My gaze swept over my new students.


Alfira, her face flushed with exhilaration, was beaming, her eyes sparkling with both power and newfound wonder. Her growth, in particular, was a beautiful thing to behold. It was clear she had a rare talent for shaping energy, a talent that went far beyond the norm. I couldn't tell if it was a quirk of her heritage—her apparent Mephistopheles tiefling lineage—or simply an exceptional natural gift. In the initial "skill download" I'd received, common teaching methodologies for every school of magic available in Skyrim were included -- giving me a solid idea of what was considered a "normal" rate of growth by the standards of Tamriel's mage academy students…


I could say, with confidence, that Alfira had surpassed that baseline by at least two orders of magnitude. Alfira was truly something exceptional, and I was genuinely looking forward to seeing her progress — and (despite Karlach's teasing) this was decisively not because Alfira's body tended to have… "interesting" reactions to magicka manipulation.


And then there was Karlach. Her usual boisterous energy and the incredible happiness she felt at finally getting rid of the Infernal Engine were now tempered with a strange pensiveness. Her brow was furrowed, and her gaze kept flicking towards her hands, to where she could still feel the thrumming of Magicka beneath her skin. There was a new hunger in her eyes, a yearning that went beyond mere curiosity. I suspected that the raw, untamed power of Magicka resonated with something deep within her, something primal and untamed. While she wasn't anywhere close to Alfira's level of talent, she still had an uncannily powerful affinity for flame — hardly surprising, given her particular history. She would surely become a Destruction magic powerhouse in the future... provided, of course, that I was there to help her master the basics. The thought of Karlach incinerating her enemies using giant tornadoes of fire magic, wielding those destructive forces with the same unbridled enthusiasm she brought to everything else... made me smile.


Gale, surprisingly, was the most subdued of the group. The normally loquacious mage was unusually quiet, his brow furrowed in concentration. He ran a hand through his meticulously styled hair, a flicker of frustration in his eyes. His initial attempts at manipulating Magicka had proven… adequate.


Perhaps competent, even… by Tamriel's standards.


But, for someone of his prodigious talent, for someone used to being labeled a once-in-a-thousand-year genius, for a former Chosen of Mystra, it was clear that he expected… more of himself. Gale was, after all, a master of the Weave and a former Archmage in his own right. The thought of this new form of magic, so intuitive and visceral for both Alfira and Karlach, eluding the likes of him… must have been vexing to say the least.


I made a mental note to offer him some additional guidance later; Gale's pride was clearly wounded, but his potential was undeniable. I'm sure he would get the process eventually... and besides, it was very possible that a certain cursed orb was somehow interfering with his Magicka manipulation abilities. I made a mental note to think of some solutions to that particular problem; after all, we wouldn't want the poor man blowing up on us.


Shadowheart and Astarion had both politely declined my offers to teach them.


Shadowheart, with a carefully neutral expression, had cited her devotion to Shar, stating that her faith provided her with all the magic she needed. But, I sensed a deeper unease there, a wariness of delving into a power that lay outside the purview of her goddess. Currently, Shar was the only thing that gave Shadowheart's life meaning, and it was also the only thing she knew.


Back in my "Ordinary Earthling" days -- which already felt so very distant -- I remembered reading a short story by Albert Camus called "The Guest." It's about a man who is forced to decide the fate of an Arab prisoner: either escorting him to a distant prison, thus delivering him to certain death, or giving him a chance to flee and join a nomad tribe out in the desert. The choice is left in the prisoner's hands. The prisoner, terrified of the unknown, ultimately chooses to go to the prison – where he would almost certainly be executed.


That story's point, as I understood it, was that most people — especially when isolated and left without well-meaning social support — will tend to choose what they know over the unknown, even when that unknownis their best chance for improving their situation… and, even when staying with what they knowis likely to literally kill them.


Shar's church took advantage of that particular psychological vulnerability to the extreme: by systematically manipulating the memories of her worshipers, Shar ensures that she was the only thing they "know," the sole anchor in their lives, and the only source of meaning and identity… accordingly, those firmly within Shar's grasp would almost never be able to leave their circumstances of their own accord.


It is an absolutely brilliant, if disgusting and diabolical, strategy.


Astarion had simply stated that he had no aptitude or interest in my magic, though his pale face and the way his gaze flickered over me betrayed a more complex reaction. I suspected that his "disinterest" stemmed from a deep-seated fear of losing what little control he still had over himself, of becoming even more vulnerable than he already was. Our current situation probably wasn't helping — and I wasn't sure how I could possibly reassure him.


My thoughts drifted to the future, to the world beyond this immediate crisis. Magicka was the birthright of every living being, a limitless source of power that was not dependent upon the whims of the divine. The possibilities… were endless.


Once this business with the Elder Brain was concluded, once the world was safe (or as safe as I could make it), I resolved to establish a place of learning. A sect, a school, an academy… a sanctuary where anyone, regardless of their background or beliefs, could come to learn the ways of Magicka. I — and, eventually, my students — would teach the newcomers to tap into the power within, to shape their destinies with their own two hands. I imagined a place filled with eager students, their faces alight with the same wonder I had seen in Alfira's eyes today. A place where the ancient secrets of the universe were not hoarded by a select few, but shared freely with all who sought them.


It was an ambitious dream, perhaps, but one that felt… right.


"Yes," I thought to myself, "once we get Gale healed and up to speed, I'm sure he would be thrilled to help me build something lasting. And, if my knowledge of magic were combined with the knowledge of modern science… well… those Netherese floating towers Gale admired so much will seem quaint in comparison to what we could build together."


My daydreams about impenetrable Underdark Strongholds, Inter-dimensional Outposts, and Orbital Habitats were interrupted by a soft voice.


"Harald?"


I turned to see Sylvie standing a few feet away, her brow furrowed with a delicate sadness. The fading light of the Feywild sunset painted her features in soft hues, highlighting the delicate curve of her cheekbone and the slight tremble of her lips. Her usual vibrant energy was subdued, replaced by a vulnerability that tugged at my heart. At six foot one, she was unusually tall for most Fae, but now, slumping as she was, she seemed far smaller and more fragile in her apparent depression.


"Sylvie," I said gently, stepping towards her. "What is it, sweetheart?"


She took a hesitant step closer, her gaze fixed on the ground.


"I… I heard that the winning contestants would be leaving soon," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the rustling of the leaves.


I nodded, my heart aching at the sight of her distress.


"It's… complicated," I said, choosing my words carefully. "There are things I need to do, responsibilities I can't ignore."


Her tear-filled eyes flickered up to meet mine; they were filled with a mixture of sadness and… a hint of desperation.


"But… but what about me?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly. "I… don't really fit in here anymore. Not like before. The other Fae… they look at me differently. They either ignore me, are envious, or… even afraid of me! They… they don't understand!"


I reached out, taking her hand in mine. Her skin was smooth and soft, like silk crossed with pure moonlight.


"Sylvie," I said, my voice firm but gentle, "you're not alone. And you'll always have a place with me, for as long as you want it."


Her eyes widened, and a single tear escaped, tracing a glistening path down her cheek. "Really?" she whispered, her voice filled with a fragile hope.


"Really, really," I confirmed, squeezing her hand reassuringly.


"You're more than welcome to come with me, Sylvie. Wherever I go, you can travel with me. I won't abandon you. I promise."


A radiant smile bloomed on her face, chasing away the shadows of sadness. She threw her arms around me, hugging me tightly, her body trembling with relief.


"Oh, Harald," she murmured, her voice muffled against my shoulder. "Thank you! Thank you so much!"


I held her close, stroking her silver hair, feeling a surge of protectiveness wash over me. She seemed so small, so vulnerable, and yet so fiercely loyal. I felt a little bad for subjecting her to that sweetroll experiment earlier, and, now that she evolved away from her pixie state, I couldn't imagine leaving her behind.


As she pulled away, her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling, she suddenly seemed to remember something.


"Oh!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands together. "I almost forgot! The main event of the Revel! You and Alfira are scheduled to go last, you know. They said it was to build suspense, but, I think they just wanted to give everyone else a chance to… well, not embarrass themselves. For some reason, everyone is convinced that you will either be absolutely terribleor else play something really special. They are even making bets on it!"


She paused. "And they expect you to play twice -- once for yourself and once for Shadowheart, since she got disqualified and all. Lord Hyrsam said it was only fair."


I chuckled, amused by her bluntness. "That won't be a problem at all. And what of the other performances?" I asked.


Sylvie wrinkled her nose. "Honestly? They were… underwhelming. Most of it is just the same old kinds of songs, just done a bit differently. There are lots of flowery words and dramatic gestures, but… not much substance. Compared to what I heard from you earlier?"


She looked deeply into my eyes.


"You'll win, Harald. Easily. Your music… I've never heard anythinglike it before. It's like…" she paused to find the right words "like starlight given voice!"


Her praise warmed me, but I knew better than to let it inflate my ego. The Fae were notoriously dramatic, and their opinions were often as fickle as the wind.


"And what of Alfira?" I asked, curious. "You've heard her practice too, right? What did you think of her music?"


Sylvie's expression softened.


"Oh, Alfira is wonderful too! That 'Tale of the Tongues' of hers… it was so moving! I think she'll win the patronage of at least one of the Judges — Lady Lliira is sure to love that story!"


I smiled, pleased for Alfira. After all, unlike my cheating Dragonborn ass, she was a true artist, who deserved all the accolades she received.


The sun had begun to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of violet and gold, when we finally made our way towards the Revel. The air crackled with anticipation, the music and laughter of the Fae a distant, alluring siren's call.


The other contestants were waiting for us at the edge of the staging area clearing, their faces illuminated by the soft glow of the lanterns that hung from the ancient trees. As we saw them in the distance, I noticed Astarion detach himself from the core of our group, his pale face unusually serious. He gestured for me to hang back, his gaze darting nervously towards the others, as if he was afraid of being overheard.


I exchanged a questioning look with Sylvie, who simply shrugged, her expression curious. With a silent nod, I allowed the others to continue on, while I followed Astarion to a secluded spot beneath the gnarled branches of an ancient oak.


He stood with his back to me for a moment, his shoulders hunched, his posture radiating a palpable tension. When he finally turned to face me, his eyes were filled with a complex mixture of gratitude, suspicion, and a raw, naked fear that made my heart ache.


"I wanted to say thank you," he said, his voice low and hoarse, "for being discreet about my… special condition. I'm not used to such consideration."


I inclined my head, acknowledging his gratitude.


"You're welcome, Astarion. It was the least I could do."


He hesitated, his gaze searching mine.


"But… why?" he asked, the question hanging in the air between us, heavy with unspoken doubts. "Why are you helping us? Helping me? The food, the shelter, the… gifted magic items? The magic lessons…? It doesn't make any sense. None of this makes any sense. We're strangers to you!"


His words were like a knife twisting in my gut. I knew, intellectually, that his distrust was a survival mechanism, a defense against a world that had taught him to expect nothing but cruelty and betrayal. But hearing him articulate his suspicions so bluntly… it still stung.


I took a deep breath, choosing my words carefully.


"We're all in this together, Astarion," I said, my voice firm but gentle. "We've all been through the Mind Flayer abduction, after all. We are all trying to overcome the challenges we've found ourselves in… And I'm helping you because… well, because it's the right thing to do! Because you deserve to be helped. Because everyone deserves a chance."


He scoffed at me, a harsh, bitter sound that sent a shiver down my spine. "The 'right thing to do'?" he repeated, his voice dripping with a cynicism so profound it seemed to poison the very air around us.


He took a step closer, his pale, red eyes glittering with suspicion and disgust, his gaze boring into mine like twin daggers. "Is that really all it is? Do you really expect me to believe that? A being of your… power… just so happens to stumble upon a group of poor lost souls and decides to play the benevolent savior out of the goodness of his heart? Come on. Spare me the platitudes. There has to be more to it than that..."


"…There always is."


His hissing voice, though barely a whisper, cracked with a raw intensity that sent another shiver down my spine.


He stalked around me, his movements fluid and predatory, like a cornered animal. The fading light of the Feywild seemed to dim, casting long, distorted shadows that danced with his every step. The air crackled with a palpable tension, thick with unspoken accusations and a desperate, gnawing fear.


"Don't play coy with me," he continued, his voice like the rasp of dry leaves. "I've survived for centuries by being perceptive. By seeing the angles. And you, my enigmatic benefactor, have angles. You reek of them."


He stopped directly in front of me, so close I could feel the faint chill radiating from his skin. "You speak like a Saint, but we both know there are no Saints present here."


He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a bare murmur. "Gale told me everything, you know. The tadpoles," he said, the word hanging in the air between us, heavy with unspoken dread. "They should have begun turning us by now. We should be well on our way to becoming mind flayers. But I have yet to begin growing tentacles. It must be because of you. What did you do? What do you want with me?"


His eyes widened maniacally, and, for a fleeting moment, I saw a flicker of genuine terror in their depths — he was afraid of me, I realized — afraid of what I may have done or planned to do.


Afraid of what he had allowed himself to voice aloud.


Afraid of the consequences of that speech.


Yet, still, despite himself, Astarion pressed on.


"Are we just puppets in your play?" he whispered, his voice trembling slightly. "Your new slaves? Fodder for some twisted experiment? Your tools? Your weapons? What is it you want from us? Tell me! Please!"


The directness of his accusations took me aback. I had known, on some level, that Astarion was suspicious, that he would be wary of my motives. But I hadn't expected him to voice his concerns so openly. The sheer intensity of his distrust was like a physical blow, leaving me momentarily speechless.


I realized, with a jolt of unpleasant surprise, that, from Astarion's perspective, his fears were perfectly justified – reasonable, even. He had no benefits of hindsight, nor the knowledge of the BG3's plot. I had openly demonstrated far too much power for it to be casually ignored. I had intervened in everyone's lives in ways that were both obvious and dramatic. And the tadpoles… the fact that they hadn't transformed anyone yet was indeed a significant detail. From his perspective, it was a natural logical leap to assume that I was somehow responsible for that protection; that I was manipulating everyone for my own inscrutable purposes. I could practically read his thoughts now: He's strong enough to stop the Mind Flayer transformation. Strong enough, perhaps, to have caused that abduction in the first place? For what purpose?


Yes, Astarion was justifiably terrified. I could see it in the way his hands trembled, in the way his eyes darted around, searching for an escape route that wasn't there. He was afraid of me. Afraid of my power. Afraid of what I might do to him, now that he had all but accused me of being the Devil himself. And yet, despite his fear, he stood his ground, his gaze locked on mine, demanding answers. It was… an interesting contrast — and one I had no idea how to resolve at the moment.


"Astarion," I said, my voice low and steady, trying to convey the sincerity of my words. "I swear to you, I have no intention of harming you or anyone else. I'm not going to enslave you. I'm not playing any games. My purpose is to help you. All of you. That is the truth."


He searched my face, his expression one of pure disbelief with, perhaps, just a hint of desperate hope.


I continued before I could lose my nerve.


"Indeed, I would be lying if I said that I didn't know more about what's happening -- and I will tell everyone in the group of my thoughts on the matter, in due time. However, for right now, know this: there are no strings attached to any of my help. You, or anyone else for that matter, will be quite free to leave my company after we exit this Revel – though, I wouldn't recommend that particular option in your case, Astarion."


Here, I paused, letting my words sink in. I needed him to understand the gravity of his situation, to see that my offer, while perhaps unsettling, was the best – and only – viable path forward.


"Let's put your cards on the table, shall we?" I continued, my voice firm and unwavering. "Face it. You don't have any good options available to you, Astarion. That tadpole in your head? It risks turning you into a Mind Flayer – a dreadful fate indeed, and one that is verylikely for you should you choose to leave the group. On the other hand, whenI find a way to safely remove those things – something I fully plan on figuring out sooner rather than later – outright removal may not be desirable for you either, due to the risk of falling back under the thrall of your old Master immediately afterwards. I trust that is not an appealing prospect either?"


Astarion's face contorted in a mask of disgust and revulsion at the thought. His eyes darted around, as if he was physically recoiling from the very idea of being under his former master's complete control once more.


I pressed the point further.


"I want to help you, Astarion. I will help you -- if you let me. But, to do that, you need to learn to show some trust. Take a leap of faith. I know it's not something you're… likely inclined to do. But, understand – this is the best I can offer you right now."


Astarion's reaction was a complex mix of emotions. He visibly hesitated, his gaze flickering between me and the ground, his internal struggle evident. Finally, he spoke, his voice a reluctant, raspy murmur. "A leap of faith, you say? Faith in you?" He gave a bitter chuckle.


"I haven't had the best of experiences with faith, Harald. All the gods in existence… I had prayed to every single one I knew of. Every. Single. One. Do you understand? In my own way, of course. I couldn't go to any temples, you see — those of the undead persuasion are not exactly welcome in such places…"


"…But, I was nothing if not sincere. I would whisper my pleas in the dead of night, offering the gods whatever scraps of devotion a broken slave could muster. I had begged them for help, for the release of my chains, for the release of death, even… I had spent decades pleading for someone, anyone, to notice my suffering."


He paused, his voice cracking with a raw, visceral pain that spoke volumes about the horrors he had endured. When he continued, his words were laced with a venomous fury that made my skin crawl.


"And where were they, I ask you? Where were the shining beacons of faith and divine mercy when I was being flayed alive for sport? Where were their gentle hands when I was locked and chained in a coffin, buried in the cold, suffocating earth, unable to see, unable to move… for monthson end? Their silence… the damned silence…


…it was deafening."


His voice dropped to a chilling whisper, the words hanging in the air like a curse.


"So don't talk to me about faith, Harald. Don't you dare preach to me about trust in things unseen. I tried trusting in the gods once. All it got me was centuries of agony, torment, and the gnawing certainty that I was utterly, irrevocably alone in this world."


"…But…" He paused, his gaze searching mine with a newfound intensity.


"But I also understand that I don't have a choice right now. Not if I want to survive…"


"...And, for what it's worth," he added, his voice softening slightly, "I'll admit that you've done more for me in these past two days than any of those so-called gods have in two hundred years. So, I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt…


…For now."

++

Our little heart-to-heart done, Astarion and I walked to rejoin the group, the lingering tension of our earlier conversation still hanging between us like an unfinished melody. As we approached, my attention was immediately drawn to Alfira, who stood a short distance away, engaged in what appeared to be a rather… fraught discussion.


The cute Bard's brow was furrowed with worry, a stark contrast to the joyous abandon that characterized most of the Fae around us, and her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, the knuckles bone-white. She was speaking to a figure who, even in this gathering of outlandish beings, managed to stand out with an unsettling aura of wrongness.


The old woman in question stood across from the nervous tiefling, her slightly hunched form casting a shadow that seemed to swallow the flickering lantern lights. Her face bore deep wrinkles, etched like a weathered map across pale skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones and a pointed chin. Her small, sunken eyes glimmered with a cold, piercing sharpness, dark pools that offered no comfort. Strands of grey, stringy hair had slipped free from a loose bun, clinging damply to her forehead, lending her a disheveled air that only deepened her unsettling presence. Her thin, cracked lips twisted into a smile—half-kind, half-mocking—but the warmth never quitereached her gaze.


She wore a long, dark dress that draped loosely over her gaunt frame, its faded embroidery catching the light in faint glimmers, a whisper of a time when it might have been grand and fashionable. The fabric shifted as she leaned forward, her stooped posture making her seem both frail and looming all at once. Her hands, gnarled and bony, rested on a tall, mushroom-circled tree stump, long yellowed nails tapping softly against the wood with each slow, deliberate motion, a sound that visibly grated on the tiefling's nerves.


As she spoke, her voice flowed in a low, soothing hum; yet, beneath it lurked something darker. Her movements unfolded with a careful precision, each gesture seemingly designed to unsettle. She edged closer, a crooked smile stretching just a touch wider than would have been natural for a human face, her stillness carrying the weight of a predator sizing up its quarry.


I sighed internally as I recognized our surprise visitor.


This… was Auntie Ethel.


The Green Hag and frequent antagonist (or, if you happened to play an evil SOB, a possible ally) from the Baldur's Gate 3 game. A being of incomparable evil and cruelty, Ethel delighted in deceiving others into entering "deals" with her that tended to end very badly for her customers.


As I watched the interaction from afar, I could hear snippets of the duo's conversation, though the general hubbub of the Revel made it difficult to process every word from the current distance. Ethel's voice, when it reached me, was like the rustling of dry leaves: a low, grating sound that repulsed me on some instinctual level, making me want to slap the bitch into a red mist.


My empty hand twitched at the thought.


"...the payment, my little songbird," she was saying, her voice alight with a saccharine sweetness that did nothing to mask the predatory gleam in her eyes. "We did have an agreement, did we not? A promise is a promise, after all. Such a pretty voice you have too… it would be a shame for you to... default on our little arrangement."


Alfira's face tightened further, her discomfort palpable. "I… I will follow through on what we agreed upon, Auntie," she stammered, her voice barely a whisper. "I just… I need some time. The Revel isn't over yet. I still have a chance to win the patronage."


Ethel's smile widened, revealing those disturbingly sharp teeth. "Time is a precious commodity, my dear. And promises… promises are not to be broken lightly. Especially not with me."


The hag reached out, her long, spindly fingers, tipped with nails that resembled sharpened claws, trailing along Alfira's arm with a disturbingly possessive gesture. Alfira flinched, pulling away slightly, her eyes darting around as if searching for an escape.


I felt my blood nearly boil in an ocean of red-hot rage -- how dare that... abomination... touch what was mine? I felt myself getting ready to step in and slap some sense into the Hag, the Archfey's non-violence rules be damned.


...


Sylvie beat me to it.


The newly-ascended ex-pixie wobbled slightly as she approached, hovering across the ground towards the pair. Her cheeks were flushed, and her silver hair slightly askew. Her usually bright eyes were just a bitglazed over, and there was a dusting of what looked suspiciously like bread crumbs around her mouth.


"Oh, whatshh tith, then?" she slurred, her voice slightly louder than intended, drawing the attention of a few nearby Fae. "Heyyy, you," Sylvie half-shouted, pointing a wobbly finger at a dumbfounded Ethel. "Why're you…" She paused to burp loudly before continuing. "Why're ya hasslin' my friend Alfira? She's a good bard, y'know. Not some… stinky hag's plaything."


Sylvie was, without a doubt, more than a little intoxicated at the moment... on her share of the magical sweetrolls, no doubt.


Gods, I hoped she didn't eat all of them at once.


Ethel's eyes narrowed, her lips curling into a sneer as she fully turned to face the interruption. "And who might you be, petal?" she asked, her voice dripping with false sweetness, though a flicker of irritation danced beneath it.


...


Ethel's sneer faltered, however, as she took a closer look at Sylvie. The hag's sunken eyes widened comically, and — even through the glamour of her human form — her face paled three shades, her skin taking on a sickly, ashen hue. Her gnarled hands twitched at her sides, and she took an involuntary step back.


"I… I see," Ethel stammered, her voice losing its earlier confidence. "My… apologies, I didn't mean to… to intrude. Please excuse me, as I have… other matters to attend to!" With a hasty nod, she turned on her heel and scurried away, her long dress trailing behind her like a shadow fleeing the light.


Sylvie turned to Alfira with a lopsided grin. "See? Told ya I'd protect you."


Alfira managed a weak smile, though her eyes still held a trace of fear.


"Thank you, Sylvie. I… I appreciate it. Though…I have a feeling this isn't the last I've seen of her."


I stepped forward, my brow furrowed with concern as I glanced between Alfira and the retreating hag.


"Alfira, what was that about? What did she want from you?"


Alfira sighed, running a hand through her hair.


"It's… a bit of a long story," she said, her voice subdued. "But… she's right. We did have an… agreement."


She hesitated, her gaze dropping to the ground.


"When I was… when my Master, Lihala, died, I was devastated. Lost. I didn't know what to do. I felt like… like my music had died with her too. Like I had no purpose anymore."


She paused, taking a deep breath.


"Ethel… she approached me. She knew about my Master, told me a story about how she was supposed to perform here, at the Revel."


Alfira took another deep breath to steady herself before continuing.


"Ethel suggested that I should take her place. That it would be a way to honor her memory. To keep her music alive. She was the one who… invited me here."


"And... the payment she mentioned?" I prompted gently.


Alfira grimaced. "She… she said that, in return for the invitation, I'd... owe her something. We never agreed on what, exactly. Just… a favor. I accepted. That's how I ended up here, at this Revel."


I frowned, my protective instincts kicking into high gear. "You've got to be kidding me! An unspecified favor? Alfira, do you have any idea how dangerous that was? Have you any idea what she is?"


Alfira shook her head sadly.


"Don't look at me like that, Harald. I know how this sounds. But, please understand, I was in a bad place then. I wasn't thinking clearly. I just wanted... a chance to sing again. To feel that connection to my music, to my Master… one last time."


Sylvie, who had been listening with rapt attention, suddenly perked up.


"Yeah!" she exclaimed, her voice still slightly slurred. "That sounds like a bad deal! You shouldn't make deals with smelly hags! They're sneaky, and stinky, and… and they eat babies!" Sylvie nodded sagely.


I couldn't help but chuckle at Sylvie's drunken vehemence, though I shared her concerns about the situation. I made a mental note to have a serious conversation with the cute fey about the dangers of consuming unspecified amounts of highly magical substances… at a later time.


My gaze followed Ethel's retreating form. She had stopped a short distance away and was now engaged in a hushed conversation with the obnoxious red-and-gold dressed bard who had so rudely bullied Alfira a day earlier. The bard, with his smug smirk and arrogant posture, seemed to be eating up whatever Ethel was saying, nodding along with an obsequious eagerness.


As we watched, Ethel glanced in our direction, her yellow eyes meeting Alfira's across the clearing. A cruel, knowing smile twisted her lips, and she raised a hand, her long, claw-like fingers waggling in a mockingly cheerful wave. Then, she turned back to the bard, her head bent conspiratorially, before finally moving away and disappearing into the swirling crowd.

++

The energy of the Revel had shifted, the earlier chaotic exuberance now coalescing into a focused anticipation. The crowd, a riotous tapestry of fantastical beings, began to gravitate towards the grand stage.The stage itself was a marvel, a colossal platform crafted from interwoven branches of ancient trees, their silver-barked surfaces shimmering with phosphorescent moss. It pulsed with a soft, ethereal light, casting an otherworldly glow upon the clearing. The air thrummed with a palpable sense of magic, raising the hairs on my arms and filling my lungs with the scent of ozone and wild blossoms.

As we joined the flow of the crowd, the cacophony of individual conversations began to subside, replaced by a hush that fell over the gathering like a velvet curtain. All eyes were now fixed on the elevated platform, where Hyrsam, resplendent in his horny glory, stood to address the expectant audience.

His voice, amplified by some unseen magic, boomed across the clearing, rich and resonant as the deepest notes of a celestial choir.

"Friends. Honored Guests. Children of the Feywild!" he proclaimed, his gaze sweeping over the assembled multitude.

"The moment you have all been waiting for has arrived. The culmination of our grand celebration! The competition of the greatest of bards, where skill and artistry will vie for the patronage of the Seelie Court, the Goddess of Joy herself... and, well, me!"

He beamed over the enthusiastic crowd, which erupted into wild cheers. Gently raising his hand to quiet them down, he continued theatrically.

"The winners of this contest shall obtain boons beyond a mortal's wildest dreams; rewards of fame and fortune that shall echo throughout history! But, let the stakes be known: those who are judged to have failed in their artistic duty will remain in our service until the next Grand Revel, in another nine years!"

Another deafening cheer erupted from the crowd, a wave of sound that washed over us, a symphony of whistles, applause, and the ululating cries of a thousand different voices. It was a sound that vibrated not just in the ears, but in the very bones, a primal chorus that spoke of unbridled passion and blissful chaos. The cheers were a cacophony of different voices, high-pitched giggles of pixies, deep bellows of treants, the trilling calls of fae birds, and the guttural growls of unseen beasts from the darker parts of the Feywild. It was a wave of pure, unadulterated enthusiasm tinged with cruelty, a tidal wave that threatened to sweep us off our feet and carry us away in its current.

It was quite clear that these beings didn't care about who won or lost. Tonight, the mortals were here for their entertainment — and those who failed to entertain would pay dearly for the privilege.

Hyrsam raised a hand, his gesture silencing the crowd with an almost supernatural swiftness.

"We shall now hear from those brave souls who have dared to bare their hearts and souls before us," he continued, his voice softening with a hint of paternal pride. "Let us listen with open minds and open hearts, and may the best among them win our favor!"

We watched attentively as the competing bards were called onto the stage one by one.

The first performer was a diminutive gnome with a lute crafted from polished rosewood. His fingers, surprisingly nimble, danced across the strings, weaving a melody that was both intricate and melancholic. The tune spoke of lost love and forgotten forests, of fading starlight and the ephemeral nature of beauty. His voice, a high, clear tenor, carried the weight of ages, each note imbued with a profound sense of longing.

Then came a tall, graceful elf, who sang a classic adventure ballad, her voice soaring and pure, like a nightingale in ecstasy. She accompanied herself on an expensive-looking enchanted harp, its strings shimmering with an inner radiance, each note a tiny explosion of pure magical energy.

Next came the group of the three kobolds we saw practicing earlier, their scales gleaming under the lanterns and emerging moonlight as they launched into a surprisingly well-coordinated percussion piece. They used an assortment of instruments fashioned from hollowed-out logs, stretched animal hides, and clusters of rattling seed pods. Their music was raw, energetic, and certainly original: a tribal rhythm that pulsed with a primal vitality. They chanted in their guttural language, their voices a mix of growls, chirps, and hisses, creating a sound that was both alien and… strangely compelling.

"Good job, little guys!" I thought to myself.

Each performance was unique, a testament to the diverse talents and artistic traditions of the invited bards. Each invitee was the crème de la crème of their field. Each bard poured their heart and soul into their music, striving to capture the essence of beauty, sorrow, joy, and longing, and to weave it into a tapestry of sound. And the crowd responded in kind, their cheers and applause a reflection of the deep emotional connection forged between performer and listener.

Sylvie and Karlach were practically vibrating with excitement. The two seemed to be having the time of their lives, grinning from ear to ear, eyes wide with childlike wonder as they took in the spectacle, cheering the performers enthusiastically.

Astarion observed the proceedings with a more refined air. His posture was elegant and composed, a smirk playing on his lips. While he seemed to appreciate the skill of the performers, his gaze was distant, as if his mind was many miles away. Still, he occasionally tapped his foot, and one long-fingered hand occasionally moved in sync with the music. Gale, who stood next to him, seemed equally lost in thought -- though, that was because he seemed more interested in analyzing the flow of magic in the clearing than listening to the performers themselves.

Lae'zel, predictably, remained stoic and impassive. Her gaze was fixed on the stage, but her expression was unreadable. Whether she was impressed or indifferent with the performances… was impossible to tell. Her body was rigid, her muscles coiled and ready, as if she expected a fight to break out at any moment.


Shadowheart, standing slightly apart from the rest of the group, watched the performances with a mixed expression. There was a flicker of genuine appreciation in her eyes, but also a hint of sadness. Some of the more melancholic tunes seemed to resonate with her own troubled past, and she often bowed her head in a quasi-prayer that, I suspected, would go unanswered.


Alfira, of course, was among the most invested. Her earlier fear had been replaced by an excited determination. Her eyes shone with admiration for her fellow bards, and she seemed to be studying their techniques with an intense focus, occasionally mouthing the words to the songs.


"You'll be fine," I whispered to her. "Just do your best with that ballad of yours; I know it will be enough!"


She blushed cutely, nodding in appreciation.


And then, it was the turn of the obnoxious bard from yesterday. Lysander.


He strutted onto the stage with an exaggerated swagger as if he owned the place, his gaudy red-and-gold outfit shimmering under the stage lanterns and the light of the full moon overhead. His lute was held with an almost arrogant flourish. His smirk was wide and self-satisfied, his eyes gleaming with a predatory confidence that made my skin crawl. There was an unnatural stillness about him, as if he were a puppet controlled by unseen strings. He took a deep breath, his chest expanding dramatically, and then he began to play.

The first few notes were… familiar.

Unsettlingly so.

A chill crept down my spine, a sense of dread tightening its icy grip around my heart.

Then, the melody became unmistakable.

…

Alduin's wings, they did darken the sky,

His roar fury's fire, and his scales sharpened scythes.

…

That motherfucker.

It was "The Tale of the Tongues."

Alfira's song.

My blood ran cold and hot at the same time, as I felt a surge of fury so intense it threatened to consume me. Every muscle in my body tensed, my hands clenching into fists so tight my nails bit into my palms.

I glanced at Alfira. Her eyes, wide and stricken, were fixed on Lysander with a look of utter disbelief mixed with a slowly dawning horror. Her breath hitched in her throat, and her body trembled, as if she had been struck a physical blow. All the color had drained from her face, leaving her skin ashen and pale.

This was a cruel, calculated act; a violation of the deepest kind. To steal someone's song was to steal a piece of their soul, to rob them of their voice, their identity, their very essence. And to do it on this stage, in front of this audience, with so much at stake…

It was an act of unimaginable malice.

Was this Ethel's doing? It seemed likely.

The thought of that hag's involvement, her long, clawed fingers pulling the strings from the shadows, made my fury burn even hotter.

I wanted to storm the stage. To rip that lute from the smug bastard's hands and smash it to splinters. To drag him off the platform and…

…

But I forced myself to remain still.

To breathe.

To think.

I knew that any rash action on my part would only make things worse. Perhaps I could survive fighting all of the fey present at once. The same, however, couldn't be said for my companions. Not to mention the danger my group would be in, any fight I started here would definitely disqualify Alfira, destroying any chance she had left, and would leave her even more vulnerable to Ethel's — and every other fey's — continued machinations.

No. I had to find a way to salvage this... without resorting to violence.

But how?

My mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, of anger and protectiveness, of a desperate need to help the poor girl.

Lysander continued to play, his smirk widening with every note. He seemed to relish Alfira's pain, to feed on her despair. His performance was technically proficient. Flawless, even. But it lacked the heart, the passion, the raw emotional power that Alfira had poured into every single verse.

It was a perfect, but hollow, imitation; a pale shadow of the original.

Finally, the song ended.

A smattering of applause rippled through the crowd, polite but subdued. Even the Fae, with their penchant for drama and spectacle, seemed to sense the wrongness of this performance. Lysander took a bow, his eyes fixed on Alfira. His smirk was triumphant, possessive, as if he had not only stolen her song but also her very being. Then, he turned and strode off the stage, disappearing into the shadows with a final, arrogant flourish.

The murmurs of the crowd that followed added to the sense of unease and betrayal. I could feel Alfira's despair like a physical presence, a suffocating weight that pressed down on us all.

Suddenly, a small figure darted through the crowd, a pixie with iridescent wings and eyes like glittering emeralds. She zipped through the air with incredible speed, landing gracefully on Hyrsam's shoulder. She whispered something into his ear, her voice too soft for anyone else to hear.

Hyrsam's reaction was… telling. His brow shot up, his eyes widening in surprise. He glanced at Alfira, then at the retreating figure of Lysander, then back at Alfira again. A flicker of… something that might have been pity crossed his face.

Then, he just shrugged, chuckling in quiet amusement.

"The next performer," Hyrsam announced, his voice regaining its booming resonance, "is Alfira."

A collective gasp rose from the crowd. It was a sound of shock, confusion, and a dawning realization of the sheer cruelty of the situation. Many of the fey have made bets on the outcome of this contest. Some have heard Alfira practice her ballad and knew well the original author of Lysander's song.

Nevertheless, what Lysander had done was -- apparently -- within the letter of the rules if not their spirit.

Alfira still had to compete.

The poor tiefling bard flinched as if she had been struck. Her eyes darted around frantically, searching for an escape, but there was nowhere to go. She was trapped. Trapped in this waking nightmare, forced to face the consequences of a Faustian bargain she had made in foolish desperation.

Her breathing became rapid and shallow, her chest heaving with each ragged inhale. She was hyperventilating, on the verge of a full-blown panic attack.

I knew I had to act, and fast.

I stepped closer to her, my voice low and urgent. "Alfira," I said, my gaze locking onto hers. "Look at me. Can you hear me?"

She nodded weakly, her eyes filled with tears.

"Do you trust me?" I asked, my voice firm but gentle.

She hesitated for a moment, her gaze searching mine, her expression a mixture of fear and desperation. Then, slowly, she nodded again.

"Good," I said. "Then listen to me very carefully."

I leaned in close, so that my words were for her ears alone. I whispered my idea, my plan, my gamble, into the darkness of her despair. Her eyes widened as she listened, a spark of something that might have been hope flickering within their depths. When I finished, she took a deep, shuddering breath, her expression a mixture of terror and determination.

Hyrsam cleared his throat, his voice echoing across the clearing.

"Alfira," he said, his tone brooking no argument. "It is your turn to perform. You may either take the stage, or forfeit your place in the competition."

The weight of his words hung in the air, heavy with finality. It was a choice between the impossible and the unthinkable. Between facing the humiliation of performing a song that had already been stolen, or losing everything she had worked for... and still owing an unspecified favor to a hag. Alfira straightened her shoulders, her chin lifting with a newfound resolve. Her eyes still glistened with unshed tears, but her gaze was steady, her voice surprisingly firm.

"I… I would like to delegate my turn," she announced, her voice trembling slightly but carrying across the hushed clearing, "to my representative."

A murmur of confusion rippled through the crowd. Hyrsam raised a questioning eyebrow, looking at Alfira, then at me.

"Your… representative?" he echoed, his voice laced with curiosity. "And who might that be?"

Alfira took another deep breath, her gaze fixed on me with unwavering trust.

"My agent in this competition" she declared, her voice growing stronger with each word, "is Harald."

The crowd erupted in a cacophony of gasps, whispers, and murmurs. All eyes turned to me, their expressions a mixture of shock, disbelief, and a dawning sense of anticipation.

The judges, four Archfey and a Goddess, exchanged glances. Titania, the Summer Queen herself, inclined her head in agreement, her consort, Oberon following her lead soon afterwards. Lliira, looking very distraught at what had been done to Alfira, quickly nodded as well.

Hyrsam clapped his hands together with visible glee, his eyes sparkling with childlike excitement.

"How unexpected! Nay… revolutionary! This… truly is the most fun I'd had at a Grand Revel in centuries — and we haven't even heard the grand finale yet!"

A wide grin stretched across his face, revealing a set of surprisingly sharp teeth.

"By all means," he boomed, his voice filled with amusement. "Let the Godling Harald play! Three pieces shall he perform for us this fine eve: one for the bard Alfira; one for himself; and one for the little Sharran under his protection."

Hyrsam's voice slowly gathered strength until it became a booming thunder, further riling up the crowd.

"This night, we shall see if he is up to the task of entertaining us. This night, we shall see if the newcomer shall win our patronage — or else, if him, Alfira, and their entire group shall remain here, in our esteemed service."

The crowd erupted in a deafening roar, which gradually died down as I stepped forward, my Ebony guitar in hand, and began to walk slowly towards the stage.